Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice by April Sinclair, A. Sinclair

From the Publisher

Jean "Stevie" Stevenson, the indomitable heroine of Coffee Will Make You Black, is back -- somewhat older and wiser, with some experience and a college degree -- diving headfirst into the hot tub, free love, yoga, and vegetarian lifestyle of 1970s San Francisco. In this liberating new world of raised consciousness, mind-expanding, and disco-dancing, a soul sister with passion and daring has room to experiment with life and love to find out who she really is.Jean "Stevie" Stevenson, the indomitable heroine of Coffee Will Make You Black, is back-somewhat older and wiser, with some experience and a college degree-diving headfirst into the hot tub, free love, yoga, and vegetarian lifestyle of 1970s San Francisco. In this liberating new world of raised consciousness, mind-expanding, and disco-dancing, a soul sister with passion and daring has room to experiment with life and love to find out who she really is.

Kate Moses

Two years ago April Sinclair made her debut with the best-selling Coffee Will Make You Black, a coming-of-age novel set in Chicago's South Side during the politically turbulent '60s. The story of high school student Jean "Stevie" Stevenson's personal awakening amidst war protests and the black power movement, it was also a chronicle of the absurd and hilarious pop culture of the times. Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice continues Stevie's story as she leaves the nest, first for a small-town college three hours from home, then as she makes the big leap to a new, bemused life in San Francisco during its most frivolous decade, the '70s.

Stevie is smart, funny, observant and refreshingly innocent of doctrinaire posturing, whether as one of the few "sistahs" at her mostly white college or as a sexually confused out-of-towner just arrived at the eye of the Bay Area's gay and lesbian storm. Therein lies her character's charm: although Stevie has a firm grasp of the hippest phraseology, she still winces at a bad case of b.o., even if it belongs to one of her "enlightened" lesbian roommates: "A chill ran down my spine. What if the feminists were wrong? What if women did need to douche after all?"

In fact, there are a lot of people overdrawn at the funk bank in San Francisco, most notably Stevie's first two girlfriends. Traci, another "sistah" whom Stevie meets at a women's community dance where the patrons are "dressed like farm hands," neglects to mention her live-in lover for months because she "just wants to go with the flow." Cynthia, leader of the Pre-Orgasmic workshop at the Personal Change Center where Stevie works, isn't available to "be there" for anyone in the first six months of a relationship, even when being there only means driving Stevie to the airport so she can catch a plane back to Chicago before her grandmother expires. "You puttin' me through too many changes, Stevie!"

The compassionate and optimistic Stevie moves forward despite disappointments and confusion. "Chile," her wise grandmother tells her, "maybe your nature is a journey and not a destination." And -- just as Stevie says that she's "tired of tripping on race!" -- she's clearly not going to trip for long over a few bad apples at the bottom of the barrel at the Loving Foods Co-op.

Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice is not deep or artful. But it is ripely funny, unpretentious, and sincere, and Sinclair proves herself cunning by placing her curious heroine within certain special interest groups while slyly exposing their often foolish ideologies. Sisterhood is powerful, but a sense of humor is more so. -- Salon

Publishers Weekly

If a novel about a bisexual black woman's pilgrim's progress through the 1970s can be said to conform to the aesthetic of Norman Rockwell, this is it. Jean Stevenson, aka Stevie, the heroine of Coffee Will Make You Black, leaves her native Chicago for college in an unnamed Midwestern city. In Sinclair's cursory treatment of those years, Stevie settles in with a mixed group of friends and takes her first female lover. A graduation trip to San Francisco results in an extended stay, and she meets Traci, an attractive feminist, and moves into her extra bedroom. After the women become lovers, Traci guides Stevie through the worlds of sex, drugs and gay politics. When the relationship dissolves, Stevie moves in with Sterling, a gay drag queen. Now employed, and with new friends, she continues to explore her sexuality through affairs with Sterling's brother and a female co-worker. When her grandmother takes ill, Stevie gains some much-needed insight, leading to a resolution that ends the novel on a happy note. With the exception of Stevie and Traci, Sinclair's characters are all types: effeminate gays, militant black nationalists, etc. Stevie narrates all this with good humor. She's engaging enough, but the sunny earnestness of it all will make some readers long for at least some of the layered wit that Armistead Maupin brought to me-generation San Francisco in Tales of the City. There's a lot of self-exploration here, but it's much wider than it is deep: Sinclair surrounds everything with a nostalgic haze that does justice to neither the personal nor the political aspects of her themes of feminism, sexuality and race.

Library Journal

In this sequel to Coffee Will Make You Black (Hyperion, 1994), Jean "Stevie" Stevenson returns, now a freshman in college. There she struggles with racism, experiments with drugs, and tries to come to terms with her sexuality. However, it is not until she graduates and moves to San Francisco that she feels free to explore her homosexual desires, all the while concealing them from family and friends. Sinclair captures the essence of a young woman's endeavor to find a job and a sense of self in a town where she is virtually alone. Stevie is as lovable, believable, and humorous as in Sinclair's first novel; it is a joy to see her maturing. Recommended for most libraries. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 10/1/95]-Shenise Ross, New York

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"You meet the same peoples over and over again in life," Grandma warned from the doorway.

I didn't give her my full attention. I was too busy cramming wool sweaters into a suitcase full of jeans. Despite my sweaty, well-toasted skin, I knew I'd need warm clothes in a month or so.

"They names and they faces might be different. But they will be the same peoples, " Grandma insisted. Her words hung in the humid Chicago air like the smell of chitterlings cooking on a stove. She pulled a paper towel from her apron pocket and wiped the sweat off her fudge-colored forehead. Grandma wore one of those serious aprons that you had to stick your arms through. There was nothing prim and proper about her.

I was the first person in my whole family to go away to college, and I was excited. But I knew that "book learning" wasn't everything. Grandma says experience is the best teacher. And she is no one to take lightly.

Mama joined Grandma in the doorway. The two of them could barely fit. They were both big women. Neither of them were fat, just big in the way grown women are supposed to be, according to Grandma. She'd often say, "Chile, don't nobody want a bone but a dog." But I was content with my slim figure. Thin was in, especially in white America, where I was headed. After all, Twiggy was the model of the hour. And besides, I certainly wasn't anywhere near that skinny. I did have titties and booty to speak of.

There sure were a lot of memories in this bedroom. The walls had been yellow, pink, and finally blue, my favorite color. I shook my head at the now worn-out-looking white bedroom furniture that had looked so magnificent the Saturday afternoon they carried ithome in my uncle's truck. Mama and Daddy bought it used from a house sale in Lake Forest, a rich northern suburb. I'd thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Aunt Sheila took one look at the gleaming white furniture and declared that we'd arrived.

I gazed at my bed. The quilt that Grandma made me years ago was almost in tatters now. I'd bought a brand-new, lime-green corduroy bedspread with some of the money I'd made this summer helping Grandma at her chicken stand.

Mama looked sad, like she hated seeing her only daughter go. You'd never know by her puppy dog expression that Mama had swung a mean switch in her day. She'd also done a lot of preaching over the years. And I'd been the mainstay of her congregation. My two younger brothers could never be held hostage long enough to listen to her sermons. Boys were "outside children," they "liked to go," as Mama would say. I wondered if David and Kevin would finally have to help her out in the house. She might make them wash a few dishes, but that would probably be about it.

"Well, Mama, you won't have me to kick around anymore," I teased.

"Just don't let some man make a fool out of you and you'll be all right. " She sighed. Her smooth pecan complexion only showed wrinkles when she frowned.

I didn't have a boyfriend right now. I'd gone to the senior prom with a dude from the school band who'd asked me at the last minute. I'd barely known the shy, husky trumpet player drew breath until he'd mumbled, "Stevie, will you go with me to the prom?" They call me Stevie at school. My family calls me Jean. My name is actually Jean Stevenson. I'd swallowed and answered, "Yeah, I'll go with you." Paul was shy and quiet, but kind of cute. At least he wouldn't expect me to put out, I figured.

Our date had been pleasant enough. I even had fond memories of resting my head on Paul's shoulder as we slow-danced to the prom's theme song, "We've Only Just Begun." It was a white tune by the Carpenters; and our class of 1971 was all-black, except for a couple of Puerto Ricans and a Chinese girl. Some people had complained about the honky theme, but the prom committee prevailed. Only three other white songs were played during the prom, Carole King's "It's Too Late" (which everybody agreed was hot, white girl or no white girl); Bread's "I'd Like to Make It with You"; and Bob Dylan's "Lay, Lady, Lay." Of course no dudes could complain about the last two.

Paul and I had gone to the Indiana Dunes for the senior class picnic the day after the prom. And Paul had been a perfect gentleman, lightly brushing my lips only when he'd said goodbye. It would give me a sweet feeling, just thinking about it. Something might have come of our connection if we'd had more time to get to know each other. But we didn't; Paul's draft number was pulled. He jumped up and joined the navy and shipped out right after graduation. Paul figured if he was in the navy, he'd have a better chance of staying out of Vietnam.

"Jean," Grandma said, interrupting my thoughts. "We're expecting great things outta you."

I chuckled as I stuffed underwear in the inside pocket of the large suitcase. "Grandma, I'm just going away to a state university, so don't y'all expect me to come back a Rhodes scholar. "

"I know you'll do us proud," Grandma said, dabbing her eyes.

Suddenly, I felt a lump in my throat. I was sad to be leaving everything familiar, even Mama.

"You just keep your head in your books," Mama admonished. "And don't let men distract you. Men are nothing to get excited about, remember that. " It was obvious that Daddy no longer excited Mama. The two of them reminded me more of business partners than lovers. She often passed Daddy like a vegetarian walking by a steak house. I wondered if the earth had ever moved...